


Posh

by noahwhelk



Series: country club czelk [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:00:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5144504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahwhelk/pseuds/noahwhelk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i have serious headcannons for rich boy czerny, so here u go.<br/>written to placate the czelk tears crew (czelk, dreamtyou, noahczerns, vamparrish, blueseargents, and newtisgay on tumblr) until i finish the promised ffs</p>
            </blockquote>





	Posh

**Author's Note:**

> one (u r here) | [two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5361371)

Noah Czerny kicked ass at tennis. After the last bell at Aglionby, he got into his tricked out Mustang and drove away to the Country Club. His sisters regularly teased him for such rich boy activities, but he was a rich boy, so he didn’t understand how he was supposed to be insulted. He did, however, accept teasing for his sweat bands, Noah wore them on his head and wrists, but the decreased amount of sweat on his face helped prevent blemishes, and he could hold the racket so much better without it slipping around in his palm.

To Noah, it was all very practical. Everything about tennis had to be practical.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked across the impeccably green grass and toward the tennis courts. Noah tossed a tennis ball between his hands as he approached his usual court, the court that became empty at exactly four o’clock when Daphne and her instructor finished, and thus freed up for Noah to attempt and hit all of his tennis balls into the opposite fence in a circular fashion and impress Stella when she walked by the court at precisely four sixteen. Everything stayed that way: uniform.

But someone was in the court, and he definitely was not Daphne. She always wore those slightly slutty tennis skirts Noah loved.

This was a boy.

And he was also wearing a baby pink polo.

Insulting.

This is mockery! Noah thought, but he kept his cool and did not speed up his step. When he reached the court, as the seconds on his fancy just-for-tennis watch turned 00 for four o’clock, the boy showed no signs of leaving Noah’s court.

“Excuse me,” Noah called to the imposter’s back.

“What?” The intruder slowly turned, as if he was inconvenienced, and Noah recognized him immediately: fellow Aglionby student Barrington Whelk.

“Barrington,” Noah started, but was promptly interrupted.

“It’s Whelk.”

Noah smiled, but not a nice smile. “Barrington, you’re in my court.”

Whelk looked around, imitating a posture of someone who was searching very hard for something. “I don’t see your name anywhere, Noah Czerny.”

Noah might have hit Whelk over the head with his racket it they weren’t on opposite sides of a chain link fence. “I always use this court.”

“There’s always room for change, Czerny.”

Noah fumed. “I’ll play you for it.”

“For the court?” Whelk scoffed.

“What? You scared?” Noah attempted to be an instigator. Whelk sputtered.

“Scared? No. I’m incredulous. Flabbergasted.”

Noah considered the definitions. “Aghast.”

“It’s a tennis court!” Whelk exclaimed and tossed his arms in the air.

“Then play in it. With me.” Noah forced his way into the court, ignoring Whelk’s protests, and tossed his bag down. He extracted a ball and his racket from the equipment bag and went to the side opposite of Whelk. “Love, love,” he counted and served the ball, hard.

It hit Whelk’s hip, making the boy groan loudly in pain. The ball bounced on the court and away. “One, love,” Noah chided and picked one of Whelk’s balls from the ground and served again, harder this time. Whelk tried to block, but it hit his shoulder.

“Two, love.”

“This isn’t fair!” Whelk yelled as Noah readied another ball.

“I didn’t choose to be unnaturally gifted in the art of tennis,” Noah responded with a sassy wink and served again. Ready this time, Whelk hit it back.

“I don’t mean your skill set, I mean your hostility and problematic tactics.” Noah reciprocated the hit, slamming the ball back in Whelk’s direction. He backhanded the ball back over the net swiftly.

“You just can’t keep up.” Noah redirected the ball so it came soaring right at Whelk, hitting the latter in the gut. “Three, love.”

“You’re psychotic,” Whelk wheezed, and groped for a ball, frowning disapprovingly when Noah did the same thing. “It’s my turn to serve, Mr. I’m-Better-At-Tennis-Than-Serena-Williams. It’s been my turn.”

“Then fucking serve!”

Whelk grumbled to himself and balanced the ball in his hand, standing sideways, before tossing it up in a perfect arc and swinging his racket as hard as he could. The ball whizzed through the air in a path that missed Noah’s ear my millimeters, and slammed into a hole in the fence behind him. Noah shrieked.

“That could have knocked me out!” he protested and cupped his ear. His fair, blonde hair was blown across his face from the wind the ball created.

“Try to keep up,” Whelk teased with a smirk and bunted a ball across the net, causing Noah to dive for it. Noah landed on his knees, but successfully got the ball back over the net. Whelk tipped it again, and Noah, livid now, slammed the ball strategically so it landed in the back corner of Whelk’s side of the court.

“Four, love,” he whimpered.

Whelk gave Noah a sweet smile and picked up the ball. He let Noah retreat back to a nice starting stance, and then served reasonably. Noah, who was successfully tricked into thinking they would play normally, peacefully hit it back—only for Whelk to hit the ball at a sharp forty degree angle so it landed on the inside corner of Noah’s court, out of reach of the latter.

“One, four.”

“You play dirty,” Noah gasped.

“And you don’t?”

Noah scoffed. “What about a truce?”

“A truce!” Whelk exclaimed and burst into laughter. “You’re winning and you don’t think you can beat me?” He felt a surge of pride. “Naw, I’ll play for the court, thank you very much.”

So the match continued. At four sixteen, Stella walked by to find both Whelk and Noah crying and the ball soaring so fast she could hear it more than she could see it. She sat down to watch. At four twenty, when her friend came to join her, the two boys stood on opposite sides of the net, very close to each other, deep in an intense altercation debating whether on the line meant in or out of bounds. Noah, since he hit it, said in. Whelk argued the contrary merely to get Noah worked up.

(Inside, Whelk agreed with Noah, but that was too easy.)

The score remained nine, eight Whelk for about seven minutes because of the argument, until Whelk gave in and let Noah win. So it became nine, nine.

The unspoken deal remained first to ten, and the tension hung thick in the air between them. Whelk held the ball, poised for a serve. Several people had gathered to watch the intensity (none of them had actually seen Noah play, just heard him brag about it).

Whelk served, hard, and Noah seamlessly hit it back to him. The ball bounced incredibly fast in and out of each side. As if by instinct, Noah predicted when Whelk would go in for his infamous bunt and ran forward to hit it. The momentum Noah built up became too much, and when he violently swung his racket, it took him with it, and Noah tumbled over the net, somersaulting onto his back.

Noah groaned and dropped his racket and rolled onto his side. Whelk, after hissing “Oh shit!” to himself, rushed over and kneeled beside Noah, wincing when his previously scraped knee hit the ground. “Dude, you okay?” he asked and knitted his eyebrows a little.

“Yeah,” Noah wheezed and propped himself up on his arm. Whelk offered his hand, and Noah took it. Whelk knew this definitely was not the time, but Noah didn’t actually hit the ball, which meant Whelk won. While Noah climbed to his feet, Whelk considered how to break this to the other player without getting punched in the face.

“Did you crack your skull on my court?” Whelk blurted almost unnecessarily, and squinted at Noah’s head.

“What?” Noah demanded and let go of Whelk’s hand.

“I asked if you broke your head. Or are you too far gone to understand?” Whelk tried to cover up in a slightly sarcastic voice.

“I almost killed myself and all you care about is you won the game?” Noah seemed quite offended, and Whelk almost apologized until, “I like how you think,” and a clap on the back.

Whelk gave Noah an extremely confused look.

Noah burst out laughing and moved his hand from Whelk’s back to his shoulder. “I actually do feel a little light-headed,” he admitted with a smile. “Actually a lot. I might pass out.”

  
“Oh, right.” Whelk carefully helped Noah to lie on the ground and because of the sudden intense work out, fatigue hit him and he just decided to lay down next to Noah. Since the “fun” was over, the crowd outside began to disperse, and Whelk let out a small laugh. “They’re bored ‘cause we’re not trying to kill each other.”

“Well, I did almost die,” Noah persisted.

“You did not,” Whelk insisted.

“Oh, the darkness is closing in, tell my mother—”

“You’re so dramatic.”


End file.
